


The World

by amdg2846



Series: Land of the Living: Missing Scenes, Oneshots, and Alternate POVs [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Akkadian Love Poetry, Alternate POV, Anal Sex, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is hornt, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Consent is Sexy, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Poetic in moments of high emotional intensity, Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley is free from Hell and dtf, Crowley is here to drink wine and suck a dick, Crowley is so much less cool than Aziraphale thinks he is, Crowley's mental state is the existential equivalent of high as a fuckin kite, Crowley's pov, Disaster gays doesn't even begin to cover it, Emotional Sex, Established Relationship, Explicit Consent, First Time Topping, Food Play, Freedom, G.K. Chesterton, Homeric Epics, Hope, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Insecurity, Just lots of feelings, Listen Neil said that Crowley does books he just doesn't admit it, M/M, Milton - Freeform, Oral Sex, Paradise Lost, Poetry, Smut and Poetry, Song of Songs, Switching, Symbolism, They're married now, Top Crowley (Good Omens), True Love, Wonder at the world, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens), and he's not out of wine at all he just has priorities, and he's the one who thinks about Chesterton's Old Song when the world is ending, and here are the tags for literary references:, as usual, gift-love!Crowley, joy, love of life, metaphysical smut, need-love!Aziraphale, religious themed smut, topping as a metaphor for self-gift, ~doctors dragging me away~ no liSTEN
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-31 09:43:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20113075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amdg2846/pseuds/amdg2846
Summary: Chapter 15 ofLand of the Livingremixed from Crowley's POV.“Star of his morning; that unfallen star / In that strange starry overturn of space / When earth and sky changed places for an hour / And heaven looked upwards in a human face.” —G.K. Chesterton,A Little Litany





	The World

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by [shenhai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shenhai/works).

Oh, had he ever tasted wine before? _ Let my soul deny it! _ On this day Crowley refused to know anything of vintages or sandy soil or the cool cellars of old French country houses. All wine was a sudden miracle, a direct communication—time and labor were nothing but a thin veil over the epiphany. The taste of it lay thick on his tongue like blood, and the scent of it breathed like frankincense from the bottle next to the plate of cheese and grapes on the little tray between them. This was his wedding feast; the wine was spoken into being, not made.

He watched Aziraphale lift the glass to his lips. (_May the wine go straight to my beloved, flowing gently over lips and teeth._) The room was warm and lamplit, the sheets were satin red. (_Were they black before? Be silent! They would only ever be red, like wine._) The air was live and sparkling, rarefied—breathing stung as sweetly as champagne. All of Crowley’s senses were bright and pulsing like stars, but brightest of all was his sight. When had he last seen so many colors? When had colors last seemed so meaningful?

The green of the grapes to him was the very first green of Eden, the green life-blood of the living Earth. (_He would not think of contracts now—this was his wedding feast._) The blue of Aziraphale’s eyes was Peace itself, the robe crowned with seven stars, the sea. His starry hair was the light before starlight, the first _ fiat _ that Being spoke when first it overflowed its borders. The wooden tray was every wooden ship that ever smote the wine-dark sea; the little silver cheese-knife every sword ever brandished between the destruction before it and the love behind. But then Crowley’s eyes fell on the block of yellow cheese, and his whole poetic fancy shuddered to a halt. For the life of him—for all the hot, rushing, exultant life of him on this, the first day of a new creation—he could not find a single lofty or symbolic thing to think about the flat brick of cheddar. His trance shattered into a million glittering pieces, and he began to laugh out loud.

Aziraphale looked at him with understandable alarm. His laughter hadn’t been precipitated by any conversation. Smiling a little tentatively, the angel asked if he was alright.

“Fine, fine, sorry, I’m fine,” Crowley said, waving one hand as he caught his breath. “Ss’just that everything looked really important for a second, really magnificent, y’know, and then there’s this cheese—” He started laughing again.

His laughter must have been infectious, for Aziraphale started to chuckle. “I suppose,” he said, “of all things bright and beautiful one doesn’t really think of aged cheddar.”

“With all due honor to Somerset,” said Crowley, raising his glass.

Aziraphale laughed in earnest, and joined the toast. “Let us drink, then, to the honor of humble things, and let the stable have its place beside the great cathedrals.”

“You _ would _ say that.” Crowley wrinkled his nose. “You who lately sundered the bonds of Hell with a nine-quid pruning knife. Flaming sword indeed.”

Aziraphale snorted into his wine, and choked on it as he inhaled through his laughter. Coughing and blinking, he held out his glass, and Crowley reached across to refill it. Their laughter began to fade, but the lightness of it shimmered high in Crowley’s chest. He knew it was coming to time. Aziraphale wanted, but was waiting for him—obviously worrying, concerned for his recovery, trying to avoid what he feared was an imposition. Crowley had shaken his head often enough at this, Aziraphale’s strange insecurity—that he might not be welcome, after all; that his hungers and fascinations might be felt as burdens. Perhaps it came from wanting life more powerfully than you were told you ought to. 

Well tonight was a night for powerful wanting, if ever there was one. The world was wet with dew and glistening before them like ripe fruit, and all their blood was wine. And here was a block of cheese, to keep them humble and laughing. And Crowley was free, free to reach out, and somehow Aziraphale’s very hesitation emboldened him. Crowley was prepared to tell him until the end of time that his love wasn’t an imposition, but the angel needed to feel it for himself. He needed to be imposed upon.

“Thank you for saving me,” Crowley said, when quiet had fallen again. “Should’ve said that before. Thanks.” The time had come, the time had come to act.

“I didn’t _ save _ you, Crowley,” Aziraphale protested, but Crowley ignored it. He _ had _ saved him. Whatever the metaphysical technicalities, whether it was three nights ago or six thousand years, when, standing under the shelter of white feathers, Crowley had felt the first pangs of this love (_oh let his banner over me be love_); whether or not Crowley had also saved Aziraphale in his own ways through the centuries; whether it was through choice or chance or cooperation, or an accidental prayer, or bureaucratic mishaps, or the long years on Earth in earthly bodies, knowing earthly yearnings—Aziraphale had saved him, and all he wanted now was to give himself.

“Thank you for _ dispensing _ me then,” he teased, and he took up a grape from the tray. Crowley knew his friend, and he knew what to do. He also knew that as soon as he got started, he was going to become terribly nervous about it. In the meantime, he could ease the way forward with something light—a little humor, a game with a gentle way out. “Really,” he continued, and innocently held out the grape. “I owe you one.”

Aziraphale looked confused. “Well,” he said, “it was my honor. And having you back with me is more than reward enough.” 

“No it isn’t,” said Crowley with a smile, and he leaned over, raising the fruit to Aziraphale’s lips. _Just a game_, he thought. _It’s just a game. You can get out gracefully if you need to, still._ But Aziraphale, slowly and cautiously, opened his mouth to receive the grape. He was embarrassed, Crowley realized with fondness and a little surprise. Had he not known, in all the years of Crowley watching him eat, how carefully he had studied the angel at his pleasure? But it was different now, wasn’t it? The pretense had been thicker before, and easier to hide behind. _This_ game was hardly a game at all, and Aziraphale understood it all too well. That was why he was embarrassed—Crowley was watching him want something that he worried he oughtn’t. _Don’t be afraid_, he thought. _Want it all, you won’t break anything. You’ll have it if it’s mine to give._

He took another grape, and looked away, trying to give Aziraphale space to retreat if he had to. “I also need to apologize,” he said.

“Apologize,” he heard Aziraphale say, “for what?”

“For the way things have been the past few weeks.” The game was slipping away, and Crowley’s nerves were tightening, as he had known they would. He couldn’t bring himself to look up, and so kept his eyes on the grape between his fingers.

Aziraphale’s voice was high and quivering when he spoke. “Crowley, you have nothing to apologize for, and you’re still recovering at the moment, so I think it would be best if—”

“I’m perfectly recovered, angel.” It was true. He had not felt so full of life and health and fervor since—well, so long ago, but never mind now. He was well, and he felt new, and the world felt new to him, and he wanted it. _ Be free with me_, he thought. _ Oh come, be free. (How much more pleasing is your love than wine.) _“You’ve taken good care of me for weeks,” he said out loud to Aziraphale. “Forever, if intuition serves. I haven’t been taking care of you in return lately, and I’m sorry. I want to. Start now?”

And that was it; the game was gone. _ Let the two of us be mingled over fruits and desires. _ This time, when Crowley offered the grape, there was no way to pretend that it meant anything else. If Aziraphale let his worries win the day, he would know exactly what he was rejecting. And maybe it would be better that way after all, Crowley thought for one terrified heartbeat. What did he really know about caring for the angel, anyway? What if he hurt him? What if he couldn’t do what was wanted or needed? He would be clumsy, he knew it, and frightened, and eager. Aziraphale had taken to this so naturally. 

But doubt couldn’t hold him for long, buoyed up as he was by the wine and the laughter, and the thrill of his new freedom, and his new sight, and his lust. He wanted Aziraphale now (and forever), and he would have him. Crowley wondered if he would ever again be as brave as he felt he could be tonight. Probably not. But Aziraphale would help him, if he tried.

He watched the angel struggle with himself (_steady now, just wait for him—nor set thy heart, thus over-fond, on that which is not yet thine_); and he saw with a tightening of the chest the moment when he decided to accept the grape. But Crowley did not expect what happened next, and when Aziraphale looked at him, took his fingers in his mouth, and curled his tongue between them, he realized with a jolt and an involuntary moan that his sense of touch was every bit as responsive as his sight just now. He would have to take this very slowly, or it would be over before it had begun.

Well, at least it was a pointed enough acceptance. There was only a little more to be said. Crowley swallowed, pushed away the sheets, uncrossed Aziraphale’s legs, and knelt between them. “Do you understand why I didn’t do this ages ago?” he asked, laying a hand on Aziraphale’s neck. _ Centuries ago, not weeks. I would have taken you the very first hour, please believe it. _

“I do,” said Aziraphale, through shallow breaths. His eyes were so clear—how could he be so beautiful?

“Forgive me?” _ It’s not the apology you gave me, I don’t have the words you have. _ He slid his other hand up Aziraphale’s thigh to his hip.

“There’s nothing to forgive. But if you wish it, then of course, you are forgiven with all my heart.” 

“Thank you,” Crowley said. His voice sounded shaken. Desire had him now. It stung and spurred him, made him remember everything he had ever hungered for. He could feel the pulse in Aziraphale’s neck and the strain in his body as he tried to move under Crowley’s hand at his hip (_but steady on, now—wait_). He held the angel still somehow, though his own hands were trembling, and their lips were nearly touching, and the threads of his self-control were snapping and frayed. This time, Crowley must be the one to start it—he could not let Aziraphale make the first approach or take the first kiss. He needed to show him. “I’m going to love you, angel, if you’ll have me. Say the word.”

Crowley barely managed to wait through Aziraphale’s breathless _ yes, please do _ before he fell upon him. Driving him more ruthlessly than the ages of wanting and not having were these last weeks of having and wanting still. He had been famished at a banquet, but now he could reach out and take, and eat. He laid them down, shaking and clutching, and tried to concentrate, to do what was wanted. But his senses were overwhelmed with sights and sounds, and his head was full of old songs and spinning stars, and every touch drew him tighter than a bow. 

He needed to slow down. He let his lips fall to Aziraphale’s neck and drew his body away to lay a line of kisses down Aziraphale’s chest. The riot of sensation quieted somewhat. This he could do—something slow and sweet; a gift. But Aziraphale stopped him halfway there, crying out in alarm, “Wait—stop it!”

Crowley looked up at him, his apprehension surfacing. The angel was worrying again. Crowley wished he could bludgeon whoever had first put that crack of uncertainty into Aziraphale’s heart. But for now, he could protect him with his own assuredness, even if it were feigned. He could be more certain than he felt, for Aziraphale’s sake. “Stop what?” he asked with a smile.

“You know very well what. I won’t have you doing anything you don’t care for.” He could hear the wobble in Aziraphale’s voice, and was happy to curse himself for the misunderstanding.

“Who says I don’t care for it?” he asked.

“But—but you said...back at the shop, three weeks ago—you didn’t—”

“Yeah...sorry about that,” he said. “It wasn’t for lack of inclination, y’know, it was just—sort of—a lot to take at the time, with...everything.” He prayed for Aziraphale to understand, not knowing how to explain it properly. The angel was flustered and struggling, clearly wanting again what he thought he ought not to have. _ Don’t be afraid_, Crowley thought again. _ Be free. (My love is poured out on you entirely—burn your craving upon me.) _

“Oh.” Aziraphale finally gave in. “Well, in that case, er, by all means, do what you will, but…we shall have to discuss it later, at length.” He may have been trying to sound stern at the end, but if so he failed spectacularly.

“I look forward to it,” Crowley laughed. Let the angel save a little face. He suspected that his own fears in this regard would crowd around him again after tonight, but they would be vanquished in their turn. He and Aziraphale had banished Hell together; an irrational insecurity would be a small business. _ No more hesitating_, he thought, and bent to take Aziraphale in his mouth.

Warm hands fluttered over Crowley’s wrists and rested there, fingers twitching as though trying not to grip too tight. Aziraphale was trembling all over, and his hips jerked occasionally, as though he couldn’t entirely control what his body wanted. Crowley smiled, held him steady, and continued, breathing in his scent and savouring him. He wanted to keep things slow, to give Aziraphale time to understand what he was trying to show him. But soon the angel was crying for more—long, piteous cries that echoed all the way to the base of Crowley’s spine and fanned his own urgency into a torrent. He had to stop. This was meant to be only a beginning; there would be other times—tonight Aziraphale would have everything of him first. He stopped, but as soon as he stopped he became painfully nervous again, and full of doubts—what if the angel didn’t want what came next? Was it pitiless of him to stop now? Was he selfish in his own plans?

He had to ask. Aziraphale always asked. Crowley raised himself up and knelt over his friend. But before he could formulate the question, Aziraphale smiled and said, “I missed you.” And he reached his hand up and touched Crowley’s face.

He wasn’t upset, then. Crowley relaxed a little at the reassurance. He could ask for this (_O soul be worthy!_), and he could do it if allowed (_O heart be clean!_). If Aziraphale said no, he could endure that too.

He tried to make a start, his words stumbling over one another. “I was gonna ask if I could—I mean, it’s whatever you want, obviously, but I thought—if you didn’t—”

“Yes—yes, that _ is _ what I want.” Thank God, Aziraphale understood him. He pulled Crowley down and kissed him, and whispered in his ear, “Please come to me, Crowley—_please _ love me.”

Oh, he was broken, now, he was ruined—how could Aziraphale say it like that? He always said things too beautifully—eloquent, at a time like this! Totally unashamed. What could Crowley say in return? _ Of course I love you, will love you, into ages of ages. _ Should he add an _ amen? _ he wondered in a dizzy haze. 

They whispered to each other as Crowley busied his hands, preparing Aziraphale to take him. He was only half-sure of who was saying what, of what was said out loud and what was ringing in his mind. (_You are beautiful, beloved, your eyes are doves._) Life and lust rushed clamoring through him like wind. He heard Aziraphale say that he was beautiful.

_ I’m going to take care of you. _

_ You are alive—alive! _Aziraphale kissed his lips and throat.

_ (Lead me to the banquet hall—I am faint with love.) _

_ When did you memorize the Song of Songs? _

_ What the hell is that? I just heard it a couple times in a tavern, it was years ago. _Crowley moved closer, pressing and soothing in turns.

_ Well then, like an apple tree—ah!—amid the forest is my beloved among the young men. _

_ If you want me to leave, you can just say so. _

_ Just a little joke—ah—Crowley!—yes, come on. _ They were breathless, laughing and panting, clung together and sweating, and Aziraphale was ready for him. Crowley pressed haltingly into him, asking all the time if he was alright; and Aziraphale said that he was, and guided him forward; and then he was there, he was in him, and the two of them fell still.

He could not move. _ How could he possibly move? _ It would be over in an instant, there was too much pressure, too much contact. How did Aziraphale do this? Crowley felt strung out taut, and overheated, dizzy and afraid of disappointing. But the angel was gazing at him blissfully, with peace on his face and lust in his eyes. He wanted to do what Aziraphale needed. Crowley lowered his head to kiss him, and tried to find his courage. _ Please, oh please let me not hurt him. _ Aziraphale was trying to wait, but he couldn’t wait forever, and it had to be Crowley who started it tonight. Full of fear, and slowly—_gently, gently—_Crowley rocked forward.

He nearly froze again at Aziraphale’s rough cry. But the angel insisted that he was alright, that he wanted to continue; and now that Crowley had begun, he hardly knew how to stop. He moved as carefully as he could, but he was quickly being caught up in his own need now, and Aziraphale’s face looking up at him from below made him feel unbalanced, as though the universe were suddenly tilting on its axis. 

_ After one moment when I bowed my head  
_ _And the whole world turned over and came upright_

Aziraphale started to whimper and ask him for more. He moved more purposefully, still cautious, until Aziraphale, apparently in frustration, wrapped his legs around Crowley’s hips and trapped him, pulling him deep. Crowley lost his tenuous grip on self-control, and made a noise he couldn’t describe, and thrust home with all the burning vigor of his new life. He had never loved Aziraphale so ferociously, or felt so thoroughly wanted, or so thoroughly seen. Through Aziraphale he was connected to everything in the world—every leaf and feather that the angel knew how to love could see him now. He could hear the stars breathing around them, and the sounds of the milling, throbbing humanity in the streets outside.

_ I walked the ways and heard what all men said,  
_ _Being not unlovable but strange and light_

He realized that Aziraphale needed him. One of his hands was twisted in Crowley’s hair. With the other, the angel was trying to reach between them, needing to be touched. Crowley caught the stray hand and pinned it back, trusting himself finally with Aziraphale’s trust.

“Allow me,” he said low and sweet in his friend’s ear, and reached down to take and stroke him with his free hand. He let go Aziraphale’s wrist, and let his weight down on him, and fucked him hard; and Aziraphale flung his arm around Crowley’s neck and kissed his lips. The angel was quaking, and spasmed up into his hand, and Crowley’s hips stuttered. Their kiss broke as they broke together, shouting and seizing, faces pressed to each other’s necks.

They lay in the aftermath for some time. When Crowley gingerly disengaged, Aziraphale held him, laid Crowley’s head on his chest, and told him that he loved him and wanted him like this forever. Crowley thought about forever, and how they could make it happen. He remembered a worry from what seemed like a lifetime ago.

“It’s just that there’s no space for a proper library here,” he said.

“My dear, what in the world are you talking about?” Aziraphale sounded drowsy.

“I was just thinking, what if we got a place of our own? Together I mean. With space for a library.”

“Mmm, and maybe a garden,” said Aziraphale. “Which reminds me, you ought to apologize to the houseplants. They suffered quite an ordeal the other evening.”

Crowley grunted affirmatively as he started to sink into sleep. He _ would _ apologize to the houseplants: a sensible action and not at all insane. He could distantly hear the noises of the world outside, the traffic and chatter and the whirring of machines. Tomorrow he would have to get up and face it all—suffering hadn’t ended with his captivity, nor cruelty, nor Hell itself, nor his own weaknesses. He was bound to Earth now, contract or no, and he would have to reconcile with its tangled mysteries.

_ The sages have a hundred maps to give  
_ _That trace their crawling cosmos like a tree_

It didn’t matter. He didn’t need to understand. Here was Aziraphale’s heartbeat, and here was his own. He would reconcile or not, accept his contract or wrestle with God in the darkness. But he would breathe, and fuck, and drink wine, and love Aziraphale with all his strength. And he was certain down to his marrow that if he managed to do even one of those things with the gratitude it merited, he would have a hope to meet every despair, and an answer for every merciless paradox. 

_ All these things are less than dust to me   
_ _Because my name is Lazarus and I live._

**Author's Note:**

> Here are the Chesterton poems quoted:  
[A Little Litany](http://www.gkc.org.uk/gkc/books/litany.html)  
[Music](http://www.gkc.org.uk/gkc/books/31184-h.htm#MUSIC)  
[The Convert](http://www.gkc.org.uk/gkc/books/convert.html)
> 
> If you want more Akkadian love literature (as I do), enjoy [this website](http://oracc.museum.upenn.edu/akklove/corpus).
> 
> The next work in the series is the morning after this, in which Crowley adjusts to his new sight: [The Light Before My Eyes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20225176).
> 
> I love all comments, and I welcome suggestions for other oneshots/remixes for this series!
> 
> Come find me on tumblr, because why not? [agnesandcecilia](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/agnesandcecilia)


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